


Chicken Days

by Catsintheattic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Chickens, Episode: s03e06 Red Sky at Morning, Gen, Humor, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catsintheattic/pseuds/Catsintheattic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets turned into a chicken. Sam has to suffer the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken Days

The witch was old. And mightily pissed off. She also had a penchant for chickens. After chasing her through five states, Sam and Dean finally caught up with here in Missouri and ganked her for unsavory rituals including roosters. The show-down was violent and bloody, accompanied by feathers flying all over the place. She died spitting and cursing, but die she did. Fortunately, there were still a few roosters left. 

It was the morning after the hunt, when Sam heard one of them crow. The joys of the open country.

“At least we saved a few of them,” he said, turning to Dean, who had been lying on his bed. Dean, though, was gone, and in his place sat a beautiful sandy colored chicken. Its feathers were all glossy and it even had a little red crown on its head. Dean’s clothes lay strewn all over the bed.

Sam stared. “Dean?”

The chicken stood and started beating its wings. Then it opened its beak and … clucked. Like any normal chicken would do. 

Still. It looked … Dean-ish, somehow, even if that wasn’t a proper word. Sam noticed Dean’s ring on the chicken’s right leg. Dean’s necklace had slid off and was curled around the chicken’s feet.

“Dean? Is that really you? This isn’t funny. What happened to turn you into a chicken all of a sudden?”

Dean the Chicken made scratching motions with his little scaly chicken feet. He didn’t seem too happy with the situation. Then he fluttered onto the bedside table and began to attack the leftovers from last night’s pizza.

“Typical,” murmured Sam, loud enough for Dean to ruffle his feathers. “As long as you can gorge yourself … Let’s hit a diner and the library, to get me a coffee and then see what we can do about you joining the cast of Animal Farm.”

He tucked Dean under one arm and headed for the Impala as soon as Dean was done eating. Dean though made it clear with a few well aimed pecks at Sam’s lower arm and hand that he wasn’t too fond of being treated like a duffle bag. After trying out a few positions, they finally agreed on Dean perching on Sam’s arm, where he immediately began to groom his ruffled feathers. 

Once they reached the Impala, Dean hopped onto the driver’s seat and then on the steering wheel. He gave up the wheel only when Sam threatened to leave him at the motel. On their way to the diner, he clucked whenever Sam took the corners a little too fast.

***

“You can’t bring a chicken into our diner,” said the young waitress. She had cute dimples and a blonde pony-tail, and a tag on her uniform that informed Sam her name was Trish. Dean would have hit on her despite her obvious lack of age. Trying to channel his brother, Sam flashed her a smile.

“Sir? Are you alright? Do you need to use the restroom?” 

From the look on her face, he had probably come up with a grimace reminding her of a medical condition. Sam gave up on smiling and waved her off. “I’m good. I just need to sit down.”

“About your chicken … Could you promise it won’t make a mess? I’d hate to get in trouble for dirt on the tables.” She made quotation marks around _dirt_ and eyed him expectantly.

“He won’t make a mess. He’s … he’s my pet. House trained, you know? And maybe, just in case, you have an old newspaper we could put on the seat?”

Her mouth formed around a sudden Oh but she caught herself fast. “Sure thing. House trained, you say? That’s so cool. I’ve never met someone with a chicken for a pet before. Does it do any tricks?”

“No, sorry, no tricks. But he’s clean.” And to Dean Sam said, “You won’t make a mess, will you?” Dean gave what Sam hoped was an affirmative cluck.

“I’ll show you to your table, then.”

Sam followed her gratefully, when a loud cackle made him stop mid-way. 

An old woman sitting in one of the corner booths waved her finger at him. “You, young man, are clearly no expert on chickens. You keep talking about _him_.” She cackled again. “But that’s a girl chicken you’re holding.”

On Sam’s arm, Dean cocked his head and gave her the chicken equivalent of a stink eye. Sam was almost glad that Dean couldn’t also give her a piece of his mind.

“I could show you what to look for,” she offered. Dean let out an indignant, definitely high-pitched squeak.

“Thank you,” Sam said, his face heating up as he tried to contain his laughter, “but I’m good.” And he hurried to follow Trish.

Once they were seated and he had chosen his pick from the menu, he bent down to Dean, who sat on the table in front of him. “That was close, dude. She was seconds away from molesting you. But ever since you pushed Gert onto me, I’ve been suspecting you are secretly into older women. Should I let her have a go at you?”

“Sir? I’ve got your pancakes.”

Sam jumped a little. Trish’s face was beet red. Great. Now she’d think him to be a pervert on top of being nuts enough to own a chicken for a pet.

It was at this moment when Dean chose to cluck louder than he ever had since he’d been turned into a chicken. One excited cluck followed the next, and Sam could have sworn Dean looked all focused and squeezy. 

Finally, he stood up, revealing a pretty brown egg under him. He took a few steps, shaking his tail-feathers. Then he turned, cocked his head and closely watched the egg, as if trying to figure out where it had come from.

“There, you see. That should be proof enough,” yelled the old woman from her booth. “Not to mention that a rooster would have a larger comb, longer feathers on its neck and tail, and, of course, spurs. But you keep calling her _him_ and see what it’ll do to her egg-production. Even chickens can be offended.” She cackled again.

Oh. So she didn’t have to touch Dean to tell that he had been turned into a girl chicken.

“May I?” Trish took the egg, a renewed fascination on her face. “I could get it cooked for you.”

Sam nodded in a daze. Dean’s egg, as it turned out, tasted quite scrumptious.

***

At the library, Sam got thrown out after the clerk had seen the chicken’s head sticking out from his backpack under the table. He informed Sam that they had no tolerance for pets, chicken or other, and that Sam could be glad to be allowed to return after he’d found a place to leave his chicken.

“Did you have to take peek, Dean? Honestly? You couldn’t just sit tight for a few hours; take a nap in there while I was doing research on how to re-transform you into you?” Sam shook his backpack, and got a few weird looks from passers-by while he was walking back toward the Impala. 

He threw the backpack on the shotgun seat with a flourish. “You’re gonna stay here and wait. And not a peep!”

He had just closed the door when a young woman stopped and threw him a scandalized look. “You can’t leave that chicken in the car. Not when they announced that the thermometer will hit 108 degrees around noon.” When Sam started to protest, she added: “At least leave some food and water for the poor thing. And don’t forget to open the windows a crack if you’re planning on leaving it in the car for more than half an hour. What are you dragging a chicken around in a car for anyway? It needs fresh air and a place to run around and scratch.” She pointed along the street. “There’s a store just down the corner that’ll sell you grains and a water bowl.” 

It seemed like the whole town was inhabited by chicken experts. Sam’s cheeks were hot and his collar started to itch, so all he did was nod at the woman and start down the street. When he reached the store, he quickly glanced over his shoulder. The young woman was still watching him. He slipped into the store and bought the recommended chicken equipment.

Back at the Impala, he dumped the bag with the grains in the footwell and tore a hole into it. “See how I’m keeping you fed? And here’s your water.” He poured half a small bottle in the bowl. “You better appreciate it. Now stop pecking at the dashboard. You can’t turn on the music. I don’t care how boring it gets in there. And will you stop clucking? You’re gonna attract attention, again. Best stay in the footwell, out of sight.”

Dean cocked his head and made a sound almost like a growl. Then he hopped down from the seat and dug his beak into the bag of grains. He came up and shook his head, seeds flying everywhere.

Sam grinned. “Don’t think of complaining. You’re a chicken. Chicken food for you it is. I don’t know what a burger would do to your digestion.”

Sam locked the door of the Impala and then headed toward the library. Even though it was only ten in the morning, the heat already caused a fine sheen of sweat on the nape of his neck. He had always liked libraries, but today, it felt like stepping from a jungle into a temple.

***

Hours later, Sam still had no clue about how to turn Dean back. Since the library was closing, he decided to call it a day.

Dean had not touched his grains, but seemed otherwise content. Sam supposed he was mainly sulking because Sam hadn’t brought him a burger. On their way back to the motel he thought about the benefits of stopping for food and a beer at the nearest gas station. While he was fumbling for his sunglasses to protect his eyes from the sunset blinding his view, a loud pop startled him enough to make the Impala swerve. For a moment he believed that he’d blown a tire, but then he realized his very human, very naked brother was sitting in the shotgun seat beside him. 

“Jesus, Sammy, don’t crash her!” 

It was a credit to Sam’s quick reflexes that he managed to narrowly avoid a tree and then steer the car back to their motel without further incident. Meanwhile, Dean couldn’t stop complaining about his driving skills and spending his whole day in the car, working hard not to make a mess on the upholstery. Sam only grunted in response, trying to avoid any glances toward the shotgun seat so he wouldn’t end up being scarred for life.

At the motel, he snuck into their room to get a pair of sweatpants, a t-shirt and some underwear together with Dean’s boots. He learned more than he ever wanted to about the contents of Dean’s duffle, but managed to get everything to the Impala before Dean was arrested for indecent exposure.

Dean demanded they go to a diner for burgers, since they had pizza just the other night. Of course, with the town being so small, there was only one diner to go to.

As soon as they stepped through the door, Trish was on them. “Hi,” she greeted Sam. “Where did you leave your chicken?”

“I left him at home. I didn’t want to be a bother.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that much of a bother.” Her gaze hit Dean. “So you’ve decided to bring your friend.”

“Now, aren’t you a cute one?” Dean had put on his four-hundred-watt smile and was clearly working with his downstairs-brain. 

Thankfully, Trish was professional enough to find them a seat and take their orders. 

Dean ferociously attacked his burger. His feeding habits didn’t differ a lot from his life form as a chicken. At least the chicken had also eaten the crumbs instead of flicking them at Sam. 

Sam decided to steer his brother’s attention back to the fact that he’d been a chicken for a day.

“So, why did you pop back? We didn’t do anything.”

“Maybe that was it? Old witchy cursed me for one day and I came back after sundown?”

Sam shrugged. It was too easy to be true. They were Winchesters. Their life was meant to be complicated when a curse was involved. But maybe, just once, they would be lucky.

***

The next morning, he woke up before sunrise and turned around. Dean was in the other bed, still asleep. While Sam contemplated the merits of an early rise against another hour of rest, the sun slowly started to color the room.

Sam heard the cry of a rooster, shortly followed by a popping sound. And instead of his sleeping brother, the other bed suddenly held a very awake, very excitedly clucking chicken. 

Sam sat up. “At least now we know your spontaneous cure was just a fluke. It seems like the cry of a rooster’ll turn you into a chicken and sundown releases you into your real form. It’s almost like you were a princess in a fairy tale.”

And for once Dean couldn’t respond that Sam was the one being the princess. At least not in so many words. But Dean, even as a chicken, made his opinion on the subject quite clear, if his ear-splitting screech was any indication. 

Sam dressed in a hurry, grabbed Dean’s clothes and held out his arm for Dean to hop onto it. “I’m going to hit the library again. There’s got to be something in there to give us a clue what to do about this. And I’m not letting you stay in the room; you’ll probably make a mess on the carpet. In the Impala, I hope you’ll at least try to behave.” 

On their way to the library, Dean refused to touch the grains in the footwell and attacked Sam’s doughnuts and coffee while Sam was occupied driving. Sam glared and stopped at the local KFC, just to make a point.

***

Two days later, after Dean had pecked his way through four cushions and six take-out boxes from Chinese Lo Mein (Dean had carefully avoided eating any of the chicken meat and had focused on the beef) to Italian pizza, Sam finally found the counter spell.

Completely on a whim, he had put away the eggs Dean laid every morning and evening with clock-work precision and kept them in the mini-fridge. They were the main ingredient for the counter spell. It was almost as if the witch had hoped Dean would turn into a rooster and stay in chicken form forever. 

“Be thankful for your feminine side,” said Sam, as he cracked all four of them into a bowl with flour, rosemary and thyme.

Dean aimed his beak at Sam’s upper arm and let out a short, indignant cry. “Drop the attitude, man! This is too good a joke to pass up, and you know it. But you’ll still get turned back for real at the end of the ritual, all thanks to the fact that you turned into a chick chicken. So stop the pecking and let me continue.” 

Once the batter was free of lumps, Sam added a pinch of salt for protection, put the skillet on the stove and melted a spoonful of butter. Then he poured the batter into the skillet and paid close attention to the pancake. The recipe for the counter spell said it had to be golden, neither too pale nor too burned. And, as Dean always claimed, Sam had a history of burning pancakes. He even had a history of setting stoves on fire while boiling water. Maybe he should have taken a more careful approach, first testing the procedure with chicken eggs? But then, who knew if Dean’s eggs would follow the standard egg behavior for making a pancake?

An alarm call and several fast pecks to his leg alerted him that his attention had begun to wander, and he quickly checked the underside of the pancake for burns. Nothing was burnt; the pancake had the perfect color. Sam dried his sweaty hands on the seat of his jeans. To flip the pancake, he moved the skillet away from the flame and onto the side, before he carefully pushed one spatula under the pancake. The recipe demanded it was absolutely necessary not to rip it during the cooking. With the help of a fork, he kept the pancake in place while he pushed it toward the rim of the skillet and then turned it. When the pancake was finally back in the skillet, Sam dared to breathe a little lighter. He added more butter, just to be safe. 

Of course, if it went wrong, all they had to do was wait for more of Dean’s eggs. But Dean in his human form would have Sam’s balls if he messed this up and condemned Dean to more chicken days than necessary.

Finally, the pancake was ready, and Sam put it on a plate on the table to let it cool down. The sun had begun to sink, bathing their motel room in eerie red and orange hues. 

Sam took a knife and sat down at the table where Dean was already waiting for him. Sam cut into the pancake, parting it in the middle. Considering that Dean had devoured a whole pizza in less than twenty minutes, five minutes before sundown had to be enough time for him to eat half a pancake. 

Sam pushed one half on a second plate and placed it in front of Dean. “Now, bro. Go for it. And remember, you have to eat all of it. No wasting it on the table and the floor.”

Dean attacked the pancake as if his life depended on it. As soon as he’d taken the first bite, he also began to cackle loudly. It was almost impossible for him to take the next peck, and he had to swallow hard to keep the food down. But Dean had a long habit of talking, munching and swallowing at the same time, and for once, Sam was grateful for it. Dean finished the first half of the pancake not a moment too late. 

He had just polished off the last crumb when the sun was gone and he turned into his human form with a loud bang. Sam grabbed the sides of the table to stabilize it, and Dean hastened to jump from the table and sit on the remaining chair.

Sam wrinkled his nose. He would never use that chair again. Or sit at that table. He resisted the impulse to comment on Dean’s lack of clothes – he had had enough opportunities to practice over the last few days – and pushed the other half of the pancake toward Dean. “Here. No use of hands. And don’t say a word until we’re sure it worked.” 

Dean bent forward and opened his mouth. It was the perfect position for a lot of things, but now, it served only to get him close to the pancake and bite off chunk after chunk, making it disappear at an alarming rate. Then again, Sam wasn’t exactly eager to share more chicken days with Dean so fast eating was good. Fast eating was very good. Fast and silent eating was even better.

Finally, Dean was done and straightened in his seat. Sam pushed a glass of water toward him to wash down the last remnants of the pancake. Dean took a large gulp, swallowed, and made a funny face.

“Now we wait until morning. No talking. No eating.”

Dean’s face fell.

“Just think of how it worked with Gizmo’s friends.” 

Dean gave a comical shrug. There wasn’t a lot they could do, and so they switched on the TV. Sam’s stomach growled loudly. But they had had worse, and he wasn’t willing to take the risk of Dean accidentally munching on a piece of Sam’s food, ruining the effects of the counter spell. They went to bed early.

***

The next morning, his alarm woke him shortly before sunrise. Dean lay in his bed on his back, staring at the ceiling. Despite the relaxed posture, Sam could tell from his shallow breathing that Dean was listening for the cry of the rooster as eagerly as Sam himself.

The both tensed, when the first hoarse cries sounded through the room.

Dean stayed human. Sam breathed a sigh of relief.

“That’s it?” asked Dean.

Sam nodded. “You should be good now.”

They went packing. In spite of them being hungry, neither of them felt like having another meal in the diner or staying in town any longer than they had to. 

Dean took the keys to the Impala. “Let’s hit the road.” It was good to drive with the windows down, warm air blowing into their faces. 

“A chicken, man. Can you believe she turned you into a chick?”

“I wasn’t a chicken. I was a very manly rooster.”

“Dean, you were a chicken. After all, I made the pancake from your eggs. And by the way, they were tasty.”

“You ate my eggs?”

“Only the first one. The others went into the pancake.”

“Still. So not consensual. I feel molested.”

Sam grinned. “So you don’t deny it. You _were_ a chicken.”

Dean threw him a glare frosty enough to fight the early morning summer heat.

“I must say, chicken-you definitely had her moments. They were almost like … chicken-flick moments.”

“Shut it, Sam, or it’ll be no veggies for you for the next three days.”

“Whatever, dude. Oops, sorry … I meant to say _chicken_.” Sam cackled.

“You are the girl in this team, Samantha, not I!”

Sam simply faked clucking. 

“Man, I’m hungry. I could go for some real food though. A large steak, with baked potatoes and onion rings. What do you say, Sammy? I’m feeling generous and even let you have a salad on the side.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re just afraid to eat your latest cousins.”

“Bitch.”

“Chicken.”

“That’s so _not_ how it goes.”

“Alright. Jerk, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’d like to thank crazyparakiss and reapertownusa for the thorough beta. Kiss sharpened my dialogue, Reaper made sure that all the details on chickens were correct, and even shared pics of her pretty girls with me. I had tons of fun writing this story and learning about chickens. No chicken were harmed in the creation of this fic.
> 
> When I discussed chicken breeds with Reaper from the description I gave for Dean she suggested he could be a Buff Orphington hen. To give you an idea, this is how Dean might look like as a chicken:
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://catsintheattic.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/4861/186382)  
> 
> 
> The picture shows Reaper’s lovely Buff Orphington hen Jenny. As you can see, she is just as pretty as ~~Jensen~~ Dean and clearly has the same cocky attitude. Thanks to Jenny for the inspiration and to Reaper for the cute pic! :-)


End file.
